I was recently invited by Brian Rogers to join in with his Iron Writer Challenge.
As soon as I saw the words ‘Writer’ and ‘Challenge’ I was immediately interested.
As for the ‘Iron’ bit, well that’s the twist in the tale. Let me explain. On the
surface it is a flash fiction writing challenge, conducted each week between four
victims, sorry . . . authors, with a limit of 500 words. So far so good, particularly
as the subject can be any genre (apart from erotica) of the writer’s choice. The
‘Iron’ part is when Brian wades in with his trump card. He provides four elements
which have to be included, and believe me he must have a serious warped sense of
humour, as none of the elements are REMOTELY linked. Below are illustrations to show
the four elements I was given for my challenge. (If you click on the images you’ll
see them in more detail):

Element Number One was a Tucker Turret. If you don’t know what one of those is, then
you’re not on your own. It’s the gun turret, which can be seen on the ‘roof’ of a
B-17 Flying Fortress. One of a number of WW2 aircraft fitted with such a device.

Element Number Two was a Russian olive tree. No, Brian couldn’t provide us poor scribes
with a ‘normal’ olive tree, it had to be a Russian one. Thanks for that Brian. An
olive tree, which doesn’t really have olives, but more of an olive shaped nut.

Element Number Three was Brian showing his kinder side, but I sensed something sneaky
was lurking around the corner for the fourth element. Anyway, let’s accept his kind
offer of ruby red slippers. I couldn’t visualise the pilot of a B-17 wearing these
on a bombing run, or any other time come to that, so a rethink was needed.

I thought as much. Brian was going to leave his killer punch until last element was
revealed. Element Four is a mermaid. I like to write thrillers, and I haven’t yet
come across the need to include a mermaid in one. And as for trying to get her to
wear ruby red slippers; well that clearly wasn’t going to work. Cinderella’s ugly
sisters had enough trouble trying to fit into a pair, and they had feet. Now, up
rocks a mermaid!

If this wasn’t going to be the root cause of writers block, then nothing was. However,
I did rise to the challenge when Brian, with a big grin across his face, tossed his
well travelled gauntlet in front of me. So, without further a do, here is what I
came up with as a story, which included all of the above elements:

The Therapist

The B-17 Flying Fortress was a sitting duck. Two engines were ablaze, and gunner
Charlie Jackson, staring through a hole in the shattered glass of his Tucker Turret,
froze as an ME109 swooped in for the final kill. Just as the German pilot was about
to open fire, Charlie sat bolt upright in bed, with perspiration oozing from every
pore in his body. When would this continuously repeated nightmare end? It was 2012,
and he was only 39 years old. Far too young to have been involved in World War Two.

He clambered out of bed, and headed towards the en-suite for a shower. He was due
to see a therapist at 9.20am, and didn’t want to be late. A movement in the corner
of his eye distracted him. He peered out of his bedroom window and observed a squirrel,
scurrying across the lawn, with what looked like the fruit seized from a large, nearby,
Russian olive tree. He considered the simplicity of the squirrel’s life, which was
clearly hoarding food for the harsh winter months, and wished his could be as straightforward.

Charlie arrived at his therapist’s office five minutes early. He shuffled through
the out-of-date magazines in the waiting area, but nothing grabbed his attention.
He just wanted one night’s sleep without the sound of gunfire. The receptionist’s
phone rang, and she quickly answered it. She then looked across at Charlie and said
‘Doctor Mea will see you now.’

Thirty seconds later Charlie was outside a door with a sign announcing the occupant
- ‘Dr I. M. Mea’. He knocked.

‘Come in’. The voice was female. It only then occurred to him he hadn’t even asked
anything about this particular therapist when he made the appointment. He opened
the door and entered the room. It was very spartan with regard to furniture, but
Doctor Mea made up for that in abundance. She was Oriental in appearance, and was
wearing a brightly coloured kimono and ruby red slippers.

‘Please Charlie, come in and take a seat. I can call you Charlie, can I?’

Charlie nodded, and sat in the seat he was shown.

‘So what brings you to see me? The notes given to me by my receptionist suggest you
are having problems with a dream.’

Charlie shook his head. ‘Not a dream doctor, a nightmare. It starts with me being
told, as I climb aboard a Second World War aircraft, that the dream will continue
every night until I kiss a mermaid on the lips. How am I supposed to do that? Mermaids
don’t exist.’

Charlie’s new therapist burst out laughing, walked across to him, and kissed him
on the lips. He recoiled in shock. ‘What are you doing woman?’

‘Curing you of your nightmare. You are now cured Charlie. Jackie on reception will
take your payment.’

Charlie was speechless, left the room and glanced at the sign on the door one more
time. ‘Dr I. M. Mea.’ It was an anagram, and that night he slept soundly.